Process

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Process

Sonnet — An Invocation to the Master #307

How many selves yet remain to burn away 
In the pittance of a single self name bound,
I wake to death of my own facet every day,
The dross and vain and many deemed fond.

On every plane of being have grown new eyes,
All the mute parts and the shy and reticent
Become eloquent in speaking of their raw loss,
A downpour of tears floods each earth-part.

Much too grave is the path to Thy heaven,
This constant change and constant battle,
Does it forebode theme of the destination,
Oh I shudder at what that could entail!

Make Thy yoga anew for our souls baffled,
Peg Thy process for mortality to comprehend.